Mission Control
by Emerald Embers
Summary: Trying to find God wasn't just about looking. Dean/Castiel


It hadn't taken Dean long to work out who had stolen Sam's iPod. For starters, the fact that Sam had nearly surgically attached himself to the gadget drastically limited the number of people who could have got close to it. That plus Castiel's newfound tendency to burst into song, usually of a modern rock persuasion, had made it pretty easy to pinpoint the culprit. The real question was why had Castiel decided to steal it in the first place?

Dean didn't ask; Castiel had a hell of a singing voice, and handed the iPod back over once requested. Sam was more bemused than pissed off, let the matter slide, and admitted on a long, achingly boring car journey that he also thought Castiel's voice was kind of awesome.

Dean chose not to admit Sam's music preferences weren't half as shitty when sung in a voice like Castiel's.

.

Musical urges apparently satisfied, Castiel had started wandering into the kitchens and bathrooms of each motel they stopped at, opening up bottles of shampoo and conditioner and bleach, sniffing the contents before setting them aside, huffing every time as if disappointed in the smell.

Dean had told him most people sniffed glue if they wanted to get high, and Castiel had shot him a look that from any other person would have made Dean feel instantly defensive, but in Castiel's presence only made him feel small.

Sam was the one to cave in and ask, curious as to what exactly Castiel was looking for - or, apparently, sniffing for.

Castiel tensed, refusing to meet either Dean or Sam's eyes. "Metatron."

"You can sniff him out?" Sam asked, sounding curious as opposed to surprised or amused. Dean bit his own cheeks, trying desperately not to laugh in case it set Castiel to sulking.

"The Metatron isn't a person," Castiel said, looking at his hands as if they could tell him what to say. "It speaks for God. It's more a - state, than a person."

"What does this have to do with the sniffing and singing?" Sam asked, receiving an exaggerated roll of the eyes from Castiel for making the mistake of asking.

"Searching for God directly hasn't worked, so I'm looking for His voice. I don't know if it would be a sound or scent or taste, so I'm sampling all I can."

"So if people say a human has the voice of an angel -"

"They would be entirely inaccurate," Castiel said. "Humans don't sound like angels, and neither does God." He frowned for a moment. "At least, I don't believe he does."

Dean opened his mouth to speak and made a few abortive movements of his lips before finally concluding, "I'm not even getting involved in this one."

.

He held true to that decision, helped by the fact when Castiel decided to turn his attentions to food, Dean's diet of chips, pie and burgers meant his meals stayed more or less untouched. Castiel had lost any interest in processed meat after the Famine incident, so Sam's slightly more adventurous plates frequently lost the occasional olive or anchovy whenever Castiel's hands wandered. He never stole much, only 'sampled', and Sam was oddly patient about the whole thing - likely because when Dean stole from his plate it would be fistfuls, not pinches, and because Castiel was strangely hygienic for someone who never appeared to wash.

They never actually _saw_ Castiel take or eat the stolen portions, which was a little unsettling, but Castiel didn't hide what he was doing; he would frown and sigh, sitting down next to them, disappointed at not finding God - or God's voice, for that matter - in a bowl of Caesar salad.

Dean had repeated his suggestion that Castiel should try looking in a tortilla, and earned a cuff across the back of his head from Sam for his troubles.

.

When Castiel demanded they pull over in the middle of another long stretch on the road, climbed out of the car, and brought an ex-possum back in with him, Dean decided against commenting.

Castiel didn't take the hint, looked at Dean and Sam's expressions of disgust before saying, "Have you tried possum before?"

"No -"

"Then don't judge," Castiel snapped, stroking his fingers through the fur on the possum's head as if he were petting the damned thing. Dean gagged, glad he'd already eaten. "I've heard roasted possum is delicious."

Sam smiled awkwardly, ever taking the failed, if valiantly attempted, diplomatic route. "Glad to hear it."

"You can't have any," Castiel said, possessive.

Sam's smile slipped from awkward into relieved. "Oh," he said. "Darn."

.

In retrospect, it might have been wiser to try and talk Castiel out of preparing road kill in the kitchen than to leave him to it while they went for takeout. Sure, it wouldn't be the first time they'd had to clean a mess of blood and guts from the counter, but it didn't mean they _wanted_ to.

At least he'd left it smelling delicious, though Dean didn't feel like picking at the leftovers. His love of meat ran deep, enough to allow mystery meat hot dogs and burgers, but not so deep he'd try road kill.

Castiel, being Castiel and living as much in his own world as the real one, had decided the fur of the possum shouldn't go to waste despite no one Dean knew having any possible use for it. It was a strange mixture of disturbing and sweetly domestic to find him sitting at the table amidst the splatters of gore with the remains of the possum, humming away happily as he cleaned it.

Dean wondered if Thom Yorke would approve of being the background music for an angel hard at work, couldn't resist commenting, "Yeah, you're a creep."

Sam added, "And a weirdo."

Castiel didn't bother to look up, let out that weird little half-laugh he managed whenever something genuinely amused him. "Waste not, want not."

.

Music, scent and food apparently all investigated to Castiel's satisfaction, Dean should have known what was due next, but it was still seriously, seriously distracting when Castiel took a turn for the touchy-feely. It had started with the fur, preparing it and then stroking it, visibly irritated when he didn't feel whatever it was he'd been hoping to feel, before tossing it aside. He'd concentrate similarly whenever touching something new or something he'd simply never bothered to touch before, which made for some odd moments when he poked at the contents of ashtrays or ran his fingers over every surface in each motel they visited.

Dean knew he was looking, tried not to think about it much, and ended up regretting that lack of thinking when he found himself cornered by Castiel after a few too many beers and had the angel take his hand, pulling him close.

It was Dean who kissed Castiel, with enthusiasm at that, before the not quite drunk part of his brain opted to remind him he didn't actually consider himself even a little bit gay, even if the rest of his body apparently disagreed.

Castiel stared at him for a moment after he pulled away, went in for another kiss, expression all too familiarly intense. Concentrating.

Dean pushed him back. "Dude. This isn't some - trying to find God, thing, is it?"

Castiel's look was somewhere between exasperated and affectionate, and Dean didn't quite know what to make of being caught on the receiving end of it. "God isn't inside you, Dean," Castiel replied, letting go of Dean's hand to trail his fingers down his throat, and Dean swore, in part from enjoying the touch and in part from being annoyed at enjoying the touch. "He made you, your skin, your insides, but He isn't part of you."

Dean wondered at the look on Castiel's face, a trace of wickedness appearing and disappearing in a flash to be replaced by a very careful, very blatantly practised serenity. "So, you're still here because...?"

"God isn't inside you, but I would like to be."

.

He'd clearly been a bad influence on Castiel. Picturing the once aloof, withdrawn, carefully self-controlled angel as a pervert before his mission to Earth broke him was just disturbing, so Dean chose to blame himself.

It was entirely his own fault that he was aching all over while lying next to a visibly exhausted angel.

He had rarely liked himself more.

"So," Dean said, folding his arms behind his head and stretching out luxuriously. "What now?"

Castiel shrugged. "I continue searching for my Father and you continue bringing the Apocalypse to an end, I assume."

"Sounds good to me," Dean replied, even if in all honesty it actually didn't, with that phrasing.

On the other hand, saving people, hunting things, and getting laid by an angel of the Lord - even one with a taste for possum? That _did_ sound good.

Better yet, he'd never have to worry about meeting the parents.

.

The End


End file.
